


Liar, Liar

by Gampyre



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: A Little Bit Of Crack, Accidental Baby Acquisition, Baby Animals, Baz is a reluctant pet dad, Ebb is an angel, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Only One Bed, Simon knows it's an objective fact that Baz is attractive, Watford Eighth Year, baby chimera, canon-level suicidal ideation, gratuitous fire, how many different ways can Baz insult the mage, that is a funny tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:07:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27200882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gampyre/pseuds/Gampyre
Summary: With only two months left at Watford, Baz and Simon are just trying to make it to the end of the year without killing each other. It's hardly the prime time to adopt a chimera. (Is thereevera good time to adopt a chimera?) Yet after one of Simon's missions goes awry, he and Baz find themselves caring for a surprisingly adorable little monster.This is a story about second chances, personal growth, and learning to trust. But mostly, it's a story about a baby chimera that won't stop setting Baz's bed on fire.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 56
Kudos: 241
Collections: Carry On Fall Exchange 2020





	1. "It's not a pet, Snow."

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Caitybug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caitybug/gifts).



> This is a gift for [Caitybug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caitybug/pseuds/Caitybug) as part of the Carry On Fall Exchange. Caity, I hope you like it!
> 
> Thank you to [Sconelover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconelover) and [Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire/pseuds/Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire) for being such lovely betas.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/188954583@N06/50530174908/in/dateposted-public/)

* * *

_Baz_

"What the fuck, Baz?"

I raise one eyebrow at the red-faced, blue-eyed, golden-curled mess in front of me. “What is it this time, Snow?” I make my voice as flat and bored as possible. My show of nonchalance is as much for my benefit as it is for the rest of the students in our class.

"Again, Baz, really? Don't you have any creativity?" Snow growls.

"I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about."

He huffs, and I get a whiff of what he ate for lunch. (Roast beef and buttered scones.)

"The chimera? Even the Humdrum is more creative than that. At least _he_ sends something different every time."

He shifts closer to me with every word. He's standing in front of my desk, leaning on his hands (and inadvertently crumpling the top sheet of my notebook). His face is inches away from mine. I fight the blush that's threatening to grace my cheeks; lucky for me, I didn’t feed last night. 

"Like I said, I have no idea what you're talking about."

I assume it has to do with whatever mission the Mage called him out of class for. He was calm enough just ten minutes ago, and then the Mage came and fetched him, they had a conversation in the hallway, and Snow came storming back in here thirsting for my head on a spike.

He sputters some indignant response, and a droplet of spit lands at the corner of my mouth. It takes nearly everything I've got not to lick it off. I wonder if it would taste like the roast beef he just ate.

"You—you—fuck you, Baz."

"Language, Mr. Snow!" Madam Bellamy scolds from across the room.

We've caught the attention of the entire class now. People are staring. Whispers are building. All eyes are on us, waiting for the show. And Snow is hell-bent on giving them something to talk about.

"You tried to kill me. Summoned that fucking chimera—"

"Language, or I'll have you suspended!" Madam Bellamy stands up at her desk, one hand grasping her Magickal brooch—likely in case Snow decides to go off and set the classroom on fire again.

"—and it didn't kill me so now you've summoned another one—"

"I did _no_ such thing," I insist.

"Liar!"

"I swear, I had nothing to do with whatever little hero quest that overgrown Robin Hood has sent you on."

"Don't talk about the Mage like that!"

"Don't accuse me of lying!"

"You _are_ a liar! **_Liar, liar, pants_** —"

" _Enough!_ " Madam Bellamy casts something I don't hear and Snow's mouth snaps shut, just in time. I try to sneer, but all I manage is a lopsided grimace—my lips are spelled shut as well. She must have cast **_Lips are sealed_**. Another lucky break for me. I don’t know if Snow intended to push magic into his words, but his intent would hardly have mattered once my arse caught on fire and I went up in a plume of smoke.

"Mr. Snow. Mr. Pitch. That is quite enough of that. You're both suspended."

She releases the spell, and we both protest at the same time, clamoring over each other. I politely explain that I need to attend football practice and my violin lessons, and he blubbers some nonsense about the Mage.

“ _Enough_ ,” says Madam Bellamy. She doesn’t say it with magic, but Snow sputters, and I pause mid-sentence.

“Mr. Snow, you are allowed to complete the task the Mage has asked you to do. However, I am sending Mr. Pitch with you. He is to help you, and then you are both to return to your room for the remainder of the evening. You are permitted to go to the dining hall for meals and attend your classes, but that’s it. Your suspension will last three days. I suggest you use the time to try to work out whatever this is.” She gestures vaguely between the two of us.

“But Baz did this!” Snow protests. “He summoned the chimera! If you send him with me he—he’ll just try to kill me!”

“I am sure that Mr. Pitch will not attempt to kill you here, on school grounds. I highly doubt he has a desire to get expelled two months before graduation. Isn’t that right, Mr. Pitch?” Madam Bellamy turns her attention to me, ignoring Snow’s blustering that I’ve _already_ tried to kill him on school grounds. (I must admit he has a point.)

“Yes, Madam Bellamy,” I tell her. “Though with all due respect, I will need permission to go to the pitch in the afternoons for football practice.”

“No, you will not. There is to be no football practice for you until your suspension is over.”

“But professor, the most important match of the year is this Saturday, and—”

“Then you’d better get out of my classroom and stop complaining before I suspend you for an entire _week_. Have I made myself clear?” 

I grit my teeth. Arguing won’t do me any good now. I’ll have to wait and see if I can make a case for myself later. “Yes, professor.”

Snow turns on his heel and stomps out of the classroom with a huff, letting the door slam shut in my face when I go to follow him. Didn’t anyone ever teach him any manners? No, of course not. (Who would have? Certainly not the Mage.)

"I can't believe you summoned a chimera _again_ ," he growls when I catch up to him just outside the building.

"I already told you, I didn't."

"I don't believe you,” he insists. “You're always trying to kill me. You sent a chimera to kill me before."

"I was trying to _scare_ you." Honestly, how many times do I have to tell him that before it sticks?

"You pushed me down the stairs."

"That was an accident!"

He rounds on me. "Are you trying to tell me you _didn't_ want to hurt me? Because I'm not sure I'd believe that. Sounds like a lie to me."

"Maybe it isn't." I keep my voice neutral.

"Isn't what?"

"Isn't a lie."

"What isn’t a lie?" He’s facing me now, glaring at me like he thinks he can bore holes through my skull with his eyes. (Then again, it’s Snow. Maybe he can. I don’t particularly wish to find out.)

"Maybe I _don't_ want to fight you," I tell him, partly because it’s the truth, and partly because I know it will bother him.

"Yeah, right. Good one, Baz. _You_ not wanting to fight me."

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Is that really so impossible to believe, Snow?”

“You’re the one who’s always starting the fights. I’m just defending myself.”

I laugh, coldly. “That’s rich. _You’re_ the one who’s always starting things with _me_.”

He steps closer and jabs his finger into my chest. It’s the second time today he’s gotten this close to me. I feel my heart rate speed up (relatively speaking; my heart rate is never what one would consider _fast_ by human standards).

“ _Your family_ started the war.” He emphasizes each sentence with another hard poke to my sternum. “It’s _your_ fault we’re on opposite sides of anything at all. If you’d just stopped being a bunch of bigots for two seconds and done what the Mage asked you—”

“Shut the fuck up,” I snap. I smack his hand away from my chest. “The _Mage_ started the war, for no bloody reason other than a perverse, selfish thirst for power.”

Snow snorts, a strangled sort of sound, and my mind conjures an image of a dying warthog. “You’re one to talk about _power,_ ” he spits. “All your family wants is power. If your mum hadn’t been so power-hungry, none of—”

I shove him, not bothering to check my strength, and he lands hard on his buttocks in the dirt with a grunt. “Don’t you dare speak about my mother that way,” I hiss. 

Simon clambers to his feet, jutting his chin out the way he does when he’s gearing up for a fight. “I wouldn’t have to if she hadn’t been such a speciesist—” 

My fist connects with his jaw, and he grunts again, turning away from me to spit out a gob of blood.

“Fuck you, Pitch.”

“No, fuck _you_ ,” I retort. Not my best comeback, but I’m seeing red. He insulted my mother.

Snow swings an arm back to hit me. But he doesn’t follow through, because a wave of magic washes over us and we find ourselves frozen in place. 

“ _Mr. Snow. Mr. Pitch_. I’m disappointed in you both _._ ” Madam Bellamy is standing by the entrance to the building, and the rest of our Elocution class is filing out behind her. In our scuffle, I hadn’t heard the dismissal bell chime. “You are both suspended for a full week, for physical aggression and use of crude language in the classroom.” 

Snow looks sullen. I don’t bother trying to argue. The best I can hope for now is for some compassion on the day of the football game, if I’m on my best behavior between now and then. (And if I can get my father to make a few phone calls.)

“Mr. Snow, do you need to go to the infirmary?”

“No, I’m fine.” He turns his head and spits out more blood. I refrain from licking my lips, but I feel my fangs pushing against my gums. Perhaps I should have fed yesterday after all.

“In that case, you’d better not keep the Mage waiting. Go finish your task, and head _straight_ to your room afterward. Do you understand?”

We both nod in agreement.

“Try the spell again,” Snow tells me. “We’re nearly on the other side of the Wood now, maybe something will turn up here.”

We’ve been wandering around in the Wavering Wood for the past two hours. It’s nearly sunset, and I’m freezing and hungry and fucking _thirsty,_ not to mention extremely pissed off at my idiot of a roommate, who got me involved in his mess. Supposedly there’s a chimera out here, and the Mage has sent his personal atomic bomb to go blow it up. 

There’s no reason I need to be out here, too, except that Snow can’t cast a spell to save his life, and there’s no chimera in sight, and besides, I don’t want to give Madam Bellamy any more reason to extend our suspension. We’ve looked _everywhere_ and tried every finding spell I know. And I know a fair few. (They come in handy whenever Mordelia steals my scarves.)

 _“_ ** _Come out, come out, wherever you are!_ "**I cast halfheartedly (for the umpteenth time). I don’t really expect it to work (least of all with the lack of energy I put into it), but I hear a shuffling sound behind us. We both whirl around to see . . . nothing.

I glance at Snow, and he’s frowning back at me.

The shuffling happens again—it’s coming from a bush. Snow steps closer to it and kicks at the bush with his foot, his sword already drawn and at the ready. 

I hear an odd sound like snarling and bleating, and then a tiny snake emerges from the bush and spits the world’s most miniscule fire-breath at Snow.

“Wha—” he starts, crouching down to look at it. Something the size of a moderately-large kitten shoots out of the bush and nearly bowls him over.

Snow struggles with it for a minute. It’s trying to get at his face, and he’s trying to pull it off, but it’s digging its tiny claws into his shirt. 

I could help him, but this is the most entertaining thing to happen this year since Gareth spelled the stairs in the Weeping Tower to shout insults at everyone who walked on them. (They told the Mage he looked like a rotten courgette and smelled like rancid peas.)

“Don’t just stand there,” Snow snarls at me. “Help me out!”

I try and fail to hold back a laugh. 

“Wanker,” he grumbles. “You are absolutely no help at all.” The thing is writhing in his arms, hissing and bleating and biting, and he’s rolling around in the dirt trying to get a good grip on it.

After several highly amusing minutes, he manages to grab the animal by the scruff of its neck (or rather, _necks_ ), and he holds it up and away from him. It dangles there, snarling at Snow. Its tiny claws are out, and it’s spitting fire the size of a candle flame in the general direction of Snow’s wrist. It singes a few of his arm hairs. 

It’s quite endearing.

I hope he doesn’t actually try to kill it. I wouldn’t put it past him to blindly follow the Mage’s orders and turn the poor creature into a pile of ash—he _did_ kill a dragon, after all. No one kills a dragon unless they’re trying to open a gateway to hell. (Or unless their name is Simon Oblivious Snow.) 

“Baz…” Simon is gaping at it. “I think I found the chimera.”

“No shit.”

“Uhhh…” he says, ever so eloquently. “I dunno what to do with it.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Don’t look at me. _I’m_ not the one that wannabe Peter Pan sent on his little errand. This is your responsibility.”

“Lay off the Mage. He’s ten times the magician you are.”

I roll my eyes, but arguing about the Mage again won’t get us anywhere. “Never mind. He told you to dispose of it, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well? Get on with it, then.”

He frowns and considers the animal in his arms. As if it understands what we’re talking about, the chimera cub stops trying to set Snow’s arm on fire, looking up in confusion. Its heads swivel back and forth, looking from me to Snow and back to me again.

Snow grimaces. “I—”

In a plea for mercy, the chimera decides to play nice. It makes puppy eyes at both me and Snow at once (a benefit of having three heads, I suppose). I have four younger siblings, so I’m somewhat immune to this sort of display of innocence. But Snow . . .

“I—I dunno . . .”

“What’s the matter, Snow? Did your conscience finally tell you that killing innocent creatures is wrong?”

“Shut _up_ , Baz!” He levels a glare at me, his eyes flashing with anger. “I’m not a monster!”

 _Not like me._ He doesn’t say it, but he doesn’t need to. I can fill in the blank on my own. “You killed a dragon,” I point out. “The dragon was innocent, and you killed it.”

Snow’s face crumples, like that pains him. “I didn’t _mean_ to,” he says. “I just went off.”

“You were trying to slay it before you went off.”

“I _wasn’t_! I mean, I was, but I wasn’t thinking. I wasn’t trying—I was _eleven_ , Baz, Jesus!” This must really be getting to him—Snow swears like a Normal when he’s especially distraught. “I was eleven, and I thought it was going to hurt me, and I had a sword, and the Mage was yelling at me to slay it, and—and I went _off_! I didn’t want to kill it. And I don’t want to blow up a baby chimera, either.”

“You’ve blown up a chimera before, too.”

He growls. “ _That_ one was actively trying to kill us, in case you forgot. This one . . .” He looks down at it, absentmindedly stroking its fur. “This one’s just a baby. Seems wrong to hurt it.”

Ever the hero. “Then what’s your plan?”

He shrugs.

“That’s not an answer,” I say. “Are you going to kill it or not?”

“ _No,”_ he snarls. “I’m not.”

“Well, you can’t let it go free,” I say. “Not here. Not inside the gates of Watford.”

“I know that.”

“Well, you can’t _keep_ it. It’s not a pet, Snow.”

Snow frowns. “I know.”

The snake head has wrapped itself around Snow’s wrist, and the creature _mewls_ like a fucking kitten. Aleister Crowley.

Perhaps I’m not as immune to its charms as I thought.

“Fine,” I sigh, a decision made. “We’ll take it back to our room. But just for tonight. And _you_ can figure out what to do with it in the morning.”


	2. "Oops? Fucking oops?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Baz leaves the chimera unattended, and Simon starts to question things he's always taken for granted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [Sconelover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconelover) and [Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire/pseuds/Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire) for being such lovely betas, and to [coolcoolcool_nodoubt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coolcoolcool_nodoubt/pseuds/Coolcoolcool_nodoubt) for brit-picking and being an amazing cheerleader! 
> 
> (Their fics are incredible as well! A few of my favorites are [Serves You Right](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26501734) by coolcoolcool_nodoubt, [The Great Watford Bake Off](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26252512) by sconelover and Unenthusiastic_mermaid, and [It Can Only Be You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24613699) by sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire and Theawkwardbibliophile 💖)

_Baz_

It takes us nearly forty minutes to get the miniscule chimera out of the Wavering Wood. Simon tries to make me carry it, which I refuse because, well. Fire plus vampire equals death, and not in the way I plan to go. (I plan to go with Simon’s sword in my chest and my kiss on his lips.)

It is entirely Simon’s fault that we’re stuck with the chimera cub in the first place, but for all his heroic intentions, Simon has no idea what to do with an animal he’s not trying to kill, so the walk back is a bit of a struggle. (Mostly a struggle between Simon and the chimera.) 

At one point I offer to spell the creature still and take over for him (purely for my own benefit—I'm eager to get back to our room as soon as possible to have a nice long shower), but he accuses me of plotting to _eat_ the damn thing. As if I would ever eat a chimera! This one smells like a horrid mixture of rancid goat’s milk and wet dog, and likely tastes much worse. (Snake blood is foul at best.) (I made that mistake once, and only once—it might even be worse than merwolf blood.) 

By the time we get back to our room at Mummer’s, we’re late for dinner, and Snow’s got scratches all over his arms, neck, and face, which only adds to the scent of blood still emanating from his nose and split lip. At least it somewhat covers up the smell of the chimera. Snow’s blood smells like burnt popcorn—extra buttery. (Half his diet is butter.) (He’d eat it plain if Bunce let him.)

“I’m going to shower,” I announce as I shut the door behind us and slip off my shoes. “I trust you can watch that thing and keep it from burning the tower down in the meantime.”

_“Baz."_

“What?”

“It’s dinnertime.”

“So?”

Snow looks aghast. “We can’t skip dinner!”

“You’re not going to take a chimera to dinner, Snow.”

“But we can’t _miss_ it! Come on,” Snow whines. “We’re already late.”

“Fine,” I say. “You go. I’ll stay here with the chimera.” 

He practically throws the animal at me and bolts out the door, the echo of heavy footsteps ricocheting around the stairwell after him. Merlin forbid anyone try to keep Snow from a meal. I set the chimera down on Snow’s bed, carefully, so as not to startle it and cause a spark (I’ve had enough near misses with fire today already). 

I desperately want to take a hot shower, which I can’t exactly do while babysitting Snow’s new pet, so I decide to try casting one of the lullaby spells Daphne sometimes uses on the baby at home. I’ve got no idea whether it works for animals at all—let alone chimeras—but it’s worth a shot.

_**“Day is done, gone the sun . . .”** _

One line in and the spell appears to be working already. The chimera blinks, eyelids heavy, and then it curls up on Snow’s pillow, nestling into the dent left by Snow’s head. 

_**“. . . From the lakes, from the hills, from the sky. . .”** _

The lion head yawns wide, its tiny sharp teeth on full display. (I wonder if my fangs are visible when I yawn like that.) (If they are, I’m sure they aren’t nearly as cute.)

_**“. . . All is well, safely rest . . .”** _

Before I even get to the fourth and final line, the chimera is snoring. (The sound is coming from the lion head . . . or maybe the goat head? I doubt it’s the snake. Can snakes even snore?) Its paws twitch a little, as if it’s dreaming of running. (I assume it’s dreaming of frolicking in a field or something. The lullaby is supposed to give babies good dreams.) If the spell works the same as it does on human children, I should have at least an hour or two before it wakes up. I leave it there and head into the ensuite.

Fully confident in my spellcasting abilities and the success of the lullaby charm, I take my sweet time in the shower, even doing a deep conditioning mask on my hair and a full-body exfoliation. I don’t shut off the water until the tips of my fingers begin to wrinkle. I squeeze the water from the ends of my hair as I step out of the shower and grab my towel to dry off before dressing in my pajamas.

I open the bathroom door to a faceful of smoke.  
  


* * *

_Simon_

Pritchard sends me back from dinner with a plate of food for Baz. I’m hoping he’s still not hungry, because maybe then I could eat his share. I left dinner a bit earlier than usual because Penny was giving me an earful about getting in a fight with Baz and about getting suspended. (She did heal my split lip and scratches, though.) She was mostly upset because we were supposed to work together on a project for Politickal Science, and now I’m confined to studying in my room. With Baz, so Penny can’t even sneak up there to study with me. Well, she _could_ _,_ technically, but Baz would report her.

Baz is in the ensuite when I get back (he always takes such long showers—what does he even _do_ in there?), but the chimera is curled up on my pillow, sound asleep and happy as pie. I walk over to check on it (and to make sure it’s actually sleeping, and Baz didn’t drain it or something). It wakes and opens its eyes when I get close, the goat head perking up and showing an intense interest in Baz’s dinner, which I’m still holding.

“That’s not for you,” I tell it, and I set the plate of food on Baz’s bed. The chimera growls a little, and the snake head coughs up a few sparks. “Sorry, mate!” 

I shuck off my jumper, and shoes, dumping them on the floor by my desk, but as I do so, I hear a small cough from behind me. I turn to see that the chimera has jumped onto Baz’s bed, and I watch as it tosses a piece of chicken in the air to catch it in its mouth. The snake head swallows it whole, then coughs again. There’s a spark, and two seconds later, Baz’s bed is on fire. It’s only a little fire at first, just at the edge of the blanket, but it spreads rapidly—you’d think a vampire would’ve swapped the school-issue bedding for some that’s less flammable, but that is clearly not the case here.

“Oh, _fuck me_ _.”_ I hesitate. I can’t fight off a fire with my sword, and I’m afraid to use my wand to put the fire out because 1) I can’t remember any of the right spells right now, and 2) I’d probably only make things worse if I use magic. But then I remember that Baz is flammable. (More flammable than regular people.) (Because he’s a vampire.) It doesn’t seem fair for him to die because his bed burst into flames. That would be a bit of an anticlimactic end to our rivalry.

So, I whip out my wand, and I try—oh I _try_ _—_ to remember the fire extinguishing spells we learned in second year. Considering I have a vampire roommate, and considering the fact that I tend to make things burst into flame whenever my magic spills out of me, I probably should have memorised these earlier. (Penny tried to make me.) (I really should have listened to her.)

Then, at the worst moment possible, the door to the ensuite opens.

_“Aleister fucking Crowley!”_

“I—I didn’t see, it was an accident—” I start.

“Well, why are you just standing there? Put it out, you imbecile!” he yells.

“I can’t!” I yell back. “I don’t remember the spell!”

The chimera is absolutely delighted by its own fire. It’s turned it into a game and is leaping about, purring and bleating as the snake head coughs up fireball after fireball, singeing holes in Baz’s bedding and sparking small flames all over it. It’s pouncing on the spreading flames like a kitten with a ball of yarn. The room is starting to smell like smoke. (Smoke that’s not my fault, for once.) (Not _directly_ _,_ anyway.)

“Make a wish!” Baz shouts at me.

“What?”

“I left my wand on my bed,” he says. I look, and he’s right. It’s resting on his pillow. “I can’t grab it. Too much fire. You have to cast the spell. _Make a wish.”_

“So I’m just supposed to _wish_ the fire goes away?” I don’t remember learning this spell at all. 

“No, it’s like birthday candles. Obviously.”

I growl. “I’ve never had a birthday cake, you git. I’ve never even been to a fucking birthday party. Why would _birthday candles_ be obvious to me?”

Baz doesn’t say anything. I turn and look at him, and I catch the tail end of a pained expression on his face before he puts on his mask of cool indifference again. “We learned this spell in second year. Don’t you remember?”

“I was _trying_ to, before you burst in here and distracted me.”

“Just imagine blowing out a candle flame,” he says. “And say the words _“Make a wish!”_

I give it a go. I imagine a bunch of candles on top of a cake. A dozen tiny flames. _**“**_ _ **Make a wish!**_ _ **”**_ I say, trying to push only a little bit of magic into it, but I overdo it a little.

Baz’s bed explodes.

And I mean, it _explodes_ _._ Just fucking disintegrates. Confetti made of down feathers and fiberfill and ash rains down around us, dusting Baz’s hair and eyelashes and shoulders (and probably mine, too) with debris. (Baz just washed his hair—he’s going to be pissed.) (More than he already is.) 

The chimera hisses and runs to hide under my bed, startled by the explosion, though completely unharmed. I suppose it makes sense for a fire-breathing creature to be fireproof. Because of evolution or something. If Penny were here, she’d give me one of those _looks_ _,_ and I’d say, _Don’t look at me like that. I know about evolution_ _._ But Penny’s not here, and the only person giving me a _look_ is Baz. (A murderous look.)

I’m in for it now. Baz glares at me, and I avoid his gaze, staring instead at the black spot where Baz’s bed used to be. At least Baz’s wand is still there, resting on top of a pile of ash.

“Oops,” I say.

“Oops? Fucking _oops_ _?”_ Baz snarls, stepping forward to snatch his wand up off the ground. “Is that really all you have to say for yourself? You’re a disaster. That’s a _second year_ spell. A child could cast it correctly.”

“Fuck you. I just did what you told me.” 

He ignores me. _**"**_ _ **As you were**_ _ **,"**_ he casts, pointing his wand at the mess of ash. _**“As you were!”** _ It takes a few tries, but eventually his bed rematerializes, and he whirls on me. “Could you, for _once_ in your life, just _try_ not to set something on fire?”

I open my mouth to defend myself and tell him it was the chimera who started it, but he cuts me off. “Just—Just don’t be here when I get back.” He turns to leave, pulling on shoes over his bare feet, still in his pajamas. 

“I can’t leave. We’re suspended. You shouldn’t be leaving, either.”

“I don’t care. Just don’t be where I can see you. And don’t you _dare_ touch my bed again. You or that creature.” With that, he stomps out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Probably going to hunt and skulk about in the catacombs. Take his anger out on some rats.

Actually . . . that’s not a bad idea. I open the door and call down the stairs after him. “If you’re eating rats again, can you bring some back for the baby?” He doesn’t respond, but I know he heard me.

As soon as he leaves, the chimera hops up on his bed and curls back up on his pillow. I try to coax it off, but the chimera won’t move, and I can’t make it. It scratches my forearms when I try to pick it up, which stings. I give it one last half-hearted nudge from behind, but it’s quite stubborn. I decide just to leave it, and hope that the setting-Baz’s-bed-on-fire thing was a one-time event.

I change into pajamas and attempt to work on some homework while I wait for Baz to come back, but when he doesn’t, I give up, turning off the lights and crawling under the blanket.

But I can’t sleep. I lie awake, staring at Baz’s empty side of the room, and the silhouette of the chimera on his bed. I can't stop thinking about the look on his face when he saw his bed on fire. And when I almost set _him_ on fire in class today. He was angry, but he was also scared. I dunno that I've ever seen Baz Pitch be truly scared of anything before. Not even when we fought that fully grown chimera back in fifth year. He's always so cool and collected, at least when he's not terrorizing me. But today . . . 

I almost killed Baz today.

Like, I really almost killed him. And I feel sick about it. I know I'm _supposed_ to kill him. Someday, that is. It's our destiny or whatever. Fight to the death, only one of us will survive. But _someday_ doesn’t mean it has to be today. I guess I’d always thought that me killing Baz was something in the distant future. Something I didn’t have to think about just yet.

I’m thinking about it now, though. I can’t help it.

I think about what would have happened if Madam Bellamy had been a second too late with her spell. About Baz bursting into flames in front of me. I think about the pile of ash his bed left behind, and I imagine Baz being reduced to a pile of ash just like that, his wand resting atop it, the only thing left of him. I imagine coming back to our room tonight, and it being empty like this, only worse, because I’d know that Baz would never be coming back.

I mean, I don’t _like_ Baz. He’s a villain. And a vampire. But he’s the most familiar thing about Watford. Being here without him would feel . . . wrong, somehow. And knowing that I was the reason he’d be gone forever? Well. Killing dragons and chimeras and were-dogs is one thing, but killing my roommate? Baz is a posh twat and a pain in the arse and a vain prick, but I’m not sure that means he deserves to die. The more I think about offing him, the more I wish it was someone else who had to do it. Right now, I'm thinking I'd rather let Baz kill me than have to live with the knowledge that I killed him. 

Now's probably a good time to stop thinking about Baz at all.

I roll over, turning my back to the empty room, and try to pretend that the sound of the chimera breathing in and out is him—I try to pretend he’s here, and alive. Because he _is_ alive _._ I didn’t kill him. Not yet. No . . . not at all. I don’t want to kill Baz any more than I want to kill the chimera. Or any more than I wanted to kill that dragon.

And maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t lying when he said he didn’t want to hurt me.


	3. "We're not naming it that!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Baz's posh shoes end up in the splash zone, Simon is oblivious as hell, and the chimera finally gets named.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [Sconelover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconelover) and [Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire/pseuds/Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire) for being such lovely betas, and to [coolcoolcool_nodoubt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coolcoolcool_nodoubt/pseuds/Coolcoolcool_nodoubt) for brit-picking and being an amazing cheerleader! 
> 
> (Their fics are incredible as well! A few of my favorites are [Serves You Right](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26501734) by coolcoolcool_nodoubt, [The Great Watford Bake Off](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26252512) by sconelover and Unenthusiastic_mermaid, and [It Can Only Be You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24613699) by sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire and Theawkwardbibliophile 💖)

_Baz_

When I get back from hunting, two extra rats in hand, Snow is feigning sleep in his bed, and the chimera is actually asleep in mine. I kick off my shoes and empty out my bin into Snow’s so that I can dump the dead rats into it. When I try to move the chimera from my bed, though, it digs its claws into the mattress and coughs up a little fireball in its sleep—missing my hand by centimeters—and then buries its face (faces) deeper into my bedding. It doesn’t even notice that its fireball set my pillow on fire. I extinguish it with a muttered spell.

Sleeping in my own bed tonight isn’t worth the risk of dying.

“Snow!” I hiss across the room. “I know you’re awake.” He doesn’t answer. I pick up one of his jumpers (from the floor, of course, because he can’t be bothered to pick up after himself), wad it up, and throw it at his head. “Snow!”

“Whaddya want?” he grumbles.

“I’m sleeping in your bed tonight. You can wrestle the creature for mine, or you can take the floor. I don’t care which.”

“No thanks. Don’t wanna sleep with you.” His voice is muffled by his pillow.

I know he didn’t mean it like _that_ , but my face burns, hot with the fresh blood running through my veins. “I didn’t say that. I said you can take the floor.”

“You take the floor,” he mumbles.

I make my way over to his bed, then yank his blanket off and lean over him threateningly (as threateningly as one can whilst clad in pajamas). “Do you really need me to explain to you all the reasons why you deserve to sleep on the floor tonight? I can list them out. One—you almost set me on fire in class today. Two—you let the chimera set my bed on fire. Three—you blew up my bed, and I still have ash in my hair, by the way. Four—”

“Fine, fine. I get it. I’m sorry, alright? You can sleep here, just—stop talking.”

“Okay.” I’m surprised he gave in so easily. I was expecting more of a fight, to be honest. But then he doesn’t move. I clear my throat. “You can get out of the bed now,” I tell him.

There’s a soft rustle as he shakes his head. “There’s room. You’re skinny. Don’t wanna sleep on the floor.” He yawns, then scoots closer to the wall, leaving a space next to him.

“Snow.” No response. “Snow, get up.” He lets out a soft snore, and I’d think he was faking, but I can hear his heartbeat slowing down. The tosser actually fell asleep on me. 

Well, then. There’s nothing for it, because there’s no way in hell I’m going to share a bed with a chimera, so I crawl under the blanket with Simon Snow. He’s so warm. Our bodies aren’t even touching, but I can feel the heat radiating off of him. Being this close to him is like sharing a room with an open fire, but at least I’m only burning metaphorically, not literally. (A small comfort.)

I don’t expect to sleep much at all, but I must doze off, because before I know it, I’m awoken by a sharp elbow to the ribs and a mouthful of Snow’s hair.

“For Chomsky’s sake, Snow, get off me.”

Snow elbows me again as he struggles to sit up. His legs are all tangled up in the blanket, and when he moves, it rips the blanket right off me, exposing my feet to the cool night air (because it _is_ still night). 

“Stop that!” I snatch the blanket back and tuck it around my feet. “It’s the middle of the night. Where the fuck are you going?”

Snow gestures at the door. “The chimera needs to go out, I think.” I look over, and see that the chimera is pacing in front of the door. The goat head makes eye contact with me, and then it bleats and scratches desperately at the door.

“You can’t take it out now,” I say. “If you get caught, our suspension will be doubled.”

 _“You_ went out without getting caught.” 

_“I_ know how to be subtle. Unlike you.”

“You’re not subtle at all,” he argues. “You think because you’re a vampire you can skulk around at all hours of the night, but—”

“I’m not a vampire,” I say.

“Are too.”

“Do you have proof?”

“You literally eat rats, Baz. You’re either a vampire or a cat-person. And we both know you’re not a cat-person, so you must be a vampire.”

I sneer at him. “You can’t prove that.”

“I’ve seen those piles of dead rats you leave in the catacombs. With fang marks in them!”

“Anything could have done that.”

“And I’ve seen you covered in blood—”

“I see you covered in blood all the time,” I point out. 

He sputters. “Yeah, but—But that’s different.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Is it?”

“Well, yeah! You’re out there biting people—”

“I would _never_ bite a person,” I hiss. That sounds too much like an admission, so I add, “Even if I was a vampire. Which I’m not.”

“Fine, you’re out there biting animals then.”

“You’re always killing animals! We’ve had this conversation already!”

He huffs, glaring at my chin (I think he’s aiming for my eyes, but he can’t see in the dark as well as I can). The chimera whines again, louder this time. It scratches more insistently at the door with both front paws. “Are you going to do anything about that?” I ask.

“What d’you want me to do with it?”

“I don’t know! Make it piss in the toilet.”

Snow snorts. “It’s not _potty-trained_. I doubt it’s going to walk itself politely to the loo to take a piss.”

“Carry it, then.”

“I’m not going to hold it over the bloody toilet.”

I roll my eyes, though I know he can’t see it. (It’s the principle of the thing.) “Then hold it out the window. Let it piss in the moat.”

The chimera whines and scratches harder at the door, no doubt destroying the wood. 

“Hold it out the—Are you mad? What if I drop it?”

“Then our problem is solved.”

“I’m not going to do that,” Snow says, stubborn as always. 

“Well, do something,” I tell him, “Before it pisses on the bloody floor.”

Snow sighs, stands, turns on the lights, then looks back at me with a grimace. “Uh . . . I think it might be a bit late for that.”  
  


_Simon_

Baz spells the floor clean, though he complains a lot about it. One of his shoes had been in the splash zone, and he gives me an earful about how they are designer, and cost more than my house, or something. I tell him that I don’t have a house, and that he’s a posh twat. That shuts him up for all of two minutes before he starts whinging again.

While Baz cleans up the mess, the chimera eats the rats Baz brought back (makes a bloody mess of them too, which Baz also spells away—“Don’t even _think_ about touching your wand, Snow!”) and then it curls right back up on his bed, to Baz’s dismay. He complains about that, too—about how he deserves to sleep in a bed that is his own and doesn't smell like goat or smoke.

“You can’t have everything you want,” I tell him, when he grumbles about his pillow for the tenth time.

“Don’t I bloody know that,” he snaps, and he glares at me like it’s _my_ fault he’s not satisfied with what he’s got. I shrug and scoot over, pointedly staring at the wall so I don’t have to look at his infuriating face anymore, and he grudgingly gets back under the blanket next to me. 

I’m sort of glad he does.

It’s not that I _want_ to share a bed with Baz. He’s the last person I’d ever want to share a bed with (obviously). But I like knowing where Baz is. Knowing that he’s not off plotting or being evil with his minions (he’s the one who calls them that) where I can’t see him. I like having him under my thumb, under my blanket. I like that I can roll over and see him right there next to me and reassure myself that he’s still right where I want him. Where I can keep tabs on him. Where he’s not off sneaking about by himself in the catacombs.

It’s comforting, the sound of his breathing and the smell of his posh shampoo. I fall asleep to his soft inhales and exhales.  
  


* * *

I wake to a cool arm draped across my middle and Baz’s cold nose pressed to my neck. On reflex, I reach frantically for my throat, feeling for my cross, but it’s not there. Did Baz remove it? No, he couldn’t have touched it. It must have fallen off at some point yesterday, maybe during our fight, or maybe while I was carrying the chimera, and I didn’t notice. Baz must not have tried to bite me last night, though—if he had, he’d’ve been expelled immediately. And—I feel around my neck just to be sure—I don’t have any bite marks on me. I breathe a sigh of relief.

But if he wasn’t trying to bite me, why was he pressing his face into my neck? I get a funny feeling in my stomach and decide to set that question aside for later.

I shift away from him, tilting my head back so I can see his face. He mumbles something, and I freeze—what if he’s awake and _aware_ that he’s practically hugging me?—but he just tightens his grip around my waist and goes right back to snoring softly. Still asleep, then.

It’s odd to see Baz without his signature sneer or haughty expression. His eyebrows are in neutral position for once, and his mouth is relaxed. His lips are parted just the tiniest bit. Baz’s eyelids flutter briefly, and I feel my stomach twist with jealousy—his features are nearly perfect (except for his nose, which is crooked, but that was my fault), and his eyelashes are thick and dark and longer than any bloke’s have a right to be. 

His black hair is fanned out over my pillow, and I have the sudden urge to touch it. Just to see if it feels as soft as it looks. Baz would never let me touch his hair while he was awake, so I should take this opportunity to, right? Seize the day and all that? Penny says a person should never waste the opportunities that present themselves, because you never know if it’s the last chance you’ll have.

My fingers have barely brushed the ends of his hair when the chimera bleats from across the room—it’s pacing by the door again. I extract myself from Baz’s arm as quickly as possible without waking him up—it’s tricky, since sleeping-Baz doesn’t seem to want to let go of me—then search for anything I could fashion into a leash to take the chimera out. Baz will kill me if I let it piss on the floor again.

I end up using one of my neckties. I knot it as best I can around the chimera’s middle, then carry the creature downstairs. It’s still early—there’s nearly an hour to go still before breakfast—so no one is around to see me, which is probably for the best. It’s so anxious to get out that it scratches my chest when it jumps down from my arms. I walk it to a spot a little ways away from the door for it to do its business. I rub at the spot it scratched—it stings a little. 

I need to figure out what to do with the chimera. I should ask Penny at breakfast. Or—I could ask Ebb, I suppose. She loves goats. And the chimera is at least one-third goat. She’d know better what to do with a chimera than Penny, probably. Penny knows a lot, but not everything. 

I take the chimera on a stroll down to Ebb’s. It’s surprisingly well behaved, for a dark creature. Much better behaved than it was last night. It's almost domesticated. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a domesticated dark creature before. Unless Baz counts. (Does Baz count as a domesticated dark creature?) (He’s not anything close to docile, but I suppose he’s polite enough, at least to people who aren’t me. He’s all posh and proper and such.) 

The chimera trots along next to me, but as Ebb’s barn comes into view, the necktie in my hand goes slack. I look down to find that the chimera has chewed its way out of my makeshift harness. And I look up again to find it racing towards Ebb’s. (It probably smells the other goats.) (I hope it’s not going to try to eat them.)

“Fuck! Hey, come back!” I chase after it, but it’s too fast for me. The more I run after it, the faster it goes. I realise it thinks we’re playing. It stops, waits for me to get close, and then darts away in the other direction. I’m pretty in shape from all the missions and training and stuff the Mage makes me do, but after a while I start to get tired. And annoyed. And hungry (it’s almost time for breakfast). And Ebb doesn’t seem to be around.

“Oi!” I yell. “Stop that!” The chimera answers by running away, then flopping down on the ground so the goat head can reach some grass. 

I give up trying to chase it. It seems perfectly content to sit there eating grass, so I go looking for Ebb.

She isn't anywhere to be found. I check all around her barn and the fields and around the hills where the goats usually are. She must be out with the goats somewhere else, or maybe taking the day off. I know she goes away every now and then for a day or two. I think she visits family, because she’s always a bit more weepy than usual when she comes back. I'll try again tomorrow. (Baz won’t be happy about me keeping a chimera in our room for another night, but he’ll just have to get over it.)

The chimera seems to have worn itself out by the time I wander back to the grassy area in front of the barn. It lets me pick it up and carry it back to Mummers, resting one head on each of my shoulders and winding the snake head around my bicep. On the way back, I think about what to call it. If Ebb’s going to adopt it (I’m pretty sure she will), it should have a name. It's a magickal creature, so probably not something boring and normal like "Steve." But dog names and cat names don't seem right either. I can't imagine calling this thing "Fido" or "Fluffy." Maybe I could name it after Baz. Or Baz's aunt Fiona. (She'd have a cow if I named a chimera after her.) Or . . . oh, that’s it! I’ve got it.

_Baz_

"Its name is Juicebox." Snow hands me the chimera (which is wearing one of his neckties, for some reason) and turns around. "I'm going to breakfast."

"You are _not_ naming it Juicebox!"

Snow shrugs. "Would you rather we name it Fiona?"

"We're not naming it at all!" I protest. Apparently Snow has two modes when it comes to magickal creatures—kill them, or bond deeply with them. (If only I could figure out how to flip that switch when it comes to me.)

"Why not?"

"Because we're not adopting it!"

"No, but it can still have a name."

"You're an idiot, Snow."

Snow shrugs again. "Whatever. Are you having breakfast now or not?”

“No.”

“Then can you watch Juicebox for me while I go?"

"I'm not calling it _Juicebox_."

"Just try not to drink it!" 

He's halfway out the door before I can respond. I look down at the creature in my arms. _Juicebox_. Leave it to Snow to name it something that is both a vampire joke and a reference to food.

The snake head wraps around my wrist, and I tense, waiting for it to set me aflame, but it doesn't. It rubs its lion head against my chest (getting fur and dirt all over my jumper—it desperately needs a bath) and then it fucking _purrs_ at me. 

"Stop that. We're not going to be friends. I don't even like you," I tell it. It ignores me, and its goat head licks my chin. "That’s disgusting. Your breath smells like smoke." 

I dump the creature on Snow's bed, and it immediately jumps off and hops onto mine. I heave a long-suffering sigh. My bedding is going to smell like goat for _months_ after this. I'll have to cast a dozen spells, and even that might not fix it. 

I watch the chimera out of the corner of my eye as I spell the hair and muck off my sweater. The creature doesn't seem to be actively trying to set anything on fire, so I figure it's safe enough to read for a while before Snow gets back (though I turn my desk chair to face the chimera— _Juicebox_ —to keep an eye on it just in case).

It really needs a better name, if Snow is going to insist on getting attached to it. Chimeras are terrifying creatures (the grown ones, anyway), so this one should have an appropriately terrifying name to grow into. Or rather, it should have three names. (One for each head—they _do_ each have separate brains, right? Separate consciousnesses? Honestly, who the fuck knows.)

I decide to name the lion head Jack the Ripper (Jack for short), the goat head Attila the Hun (I’ll call it Attila), and the snake head Lucifer. I tell the heads their new names. Lucifer hisses a bit, and Jack and Attila look thoroughly unimpressed.

My reading is interrupted when Snow bursts through the door, Bunce half a step behind him. I open my mouth to tell her to get out, but she speaks first.

"Don't even think about reporting me, Basil. Simon might not be able to hurt you here, but the Anathema doesn't apply to me. Not with you anyway." Her expression darkens. "Sometimes I wish it didn’t apply to Trixie, either." She mutters something about pixie dust under her breath.

Simon gestures at Jack, Attila, and Lucifer. "Penny, meet Juicebox."

Bunce snorts inelegantly. "Tell me you didn't actually name it Juicebox."

"That's not its name," I say. "The snake is Lucifer, the goat is Attila, and the lion is Jack."

"Jack?" she giggles.

"As in Jack the Ripper. You shouldn’t be here, Bunce."

“You said we weren’t going to name it!” Snow exclaims indignantly.

"Nicks and Slick, Basil," Bunce laughs again. "Have you gone soft? Is this your new pet?"

"No." I let my upper lip curl in a sneer. "I simply refuse to call it _Juicebox._ "

"Juicebox is offended," Simon says.

"Is it a male chimera?" Bunce asks me. "Or did you just assume the default and name them after men without considering other possibilities?"

I frown at her and walk over to the chimera. I lift one of its legs. There doesn't seem to be any distinguishing genitalia at all. 

"Congratulations, Snow, it's a boy!" I announce, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Bunce, get out of our room."

Bunce brushes past me and peeks under the chimera's leg herself. Jack snaps at her, and she snatches her hand back. "How can you tell? Is it the same as cats and dogs?”

“How the fuck should I know?” I say.

Snow shrugs. “You’re the one who summoned one.”

I scoff. “Yeah, but it’s not like I got close enough to look at its reproductive parts, is it? In case you forgot, _that_ was a fully grown chimera that was trying to eat us.”

“Oh, I didn’t forget.”

“You really didn’t do any research on chimeras before you summoned one?" Bunce asks. "Seems a bit unlike you, to be honest.”

Oh, please. “Of _course_ I did my research. But I was trying to scare Snow, not breed a herd of them. Its reproductive parts were the least of my concern.”

“So what do you remember, then? Do you know what they eat?”

“They eat _people_.”

She laughs. "I highly doubt this little gal is going to be eating any people anytime soon. She might manage to get a few fingers or toes, though, if you're not careful."

"Or set me on fire," I say. "Are you just going to stand there staring at it, or what? Snow and I need to get to Greek now."

"So do I. We're all in the same class, Basil. But you can't leave a chimera loose in your room."

"Obviously," I say.

" _So_ ," she continues, brushing off my interruption, "I'm going to help you conceal it during class."

Bunce is a skilled magician, I'll give her that. She manages to give Jack, Attila, and Lucifer some sort of glamour to look like a regular kitten, and she magicks a mesh window in Snow's bag so he can carry the chimera around with him like a little cat backpack.

* * *

The day goes smoothly enough except for lunch, when Lucifer starts to get a bit restless. He keeps setting Snow’s bag aflame, and I keep having to extinguish the fires for him. Luckily, our classmates are so used to Snow blowing things up or clogging up their airways with his magic that no one gives his smoking bag a second glance—at least not until it starts growling. I end up casting the lullaby spell again to get us through afternoon classes and dinner without incident, and it works, well, like a charm.

At dinner, I sit with Dev and Niall as usual, while Snow sits with Bunce and shoots suspicious glances at me the whole way through. I hear him mutter something to her about plotting, and I wait until he looks over at me before lifting my lip in a sneer, turning my head just enough so that he can see it. 

Dev is pissed at me for getting suspended, and informs me that Coach Mac is replacing me with our cousin Marcus for this Saturday’s game. “Marcus is a shit midfielder,” I say. “We’ll never win with him in my place.”

“I know,” Dev says, miserably. “Why’d you have to go and get yourself suspended?”

“I didn’t! It’s Snow who—”

“Oh, stop it already,” Niall interjects. “All you talk about is Snow. Snow this, Snow that . . . honestly, we all know you’re in love with—”

“Shh!” I hiss. “Don’t say that out loud!”

He rolls his eyes but lowers his voice to a whisper and leans in. “We all know you’re in love with him, but we don’t need a play-by-play of his every move. Honestly, no one’s interested but you.”

“Unless you’re gonna tell us you two finally shagged,” Dev says with a wink. “I’d like to hear about that.”

“Speak for yourself,” mutters Niall. “I swear, I’m going to have to impose a quota or something. An embargo on Snow-talk at the dining table.”

“I’ll talk about him as much as I like,” I say.

Niall opens his mouth to argue more, but Dev places a hand on his arm to stop him and says, “Whatever, Baz. Just get yourself on the pitch this Saturday. I don’t care how, just make it happen.”

“Maybe if you were nicer to Snow, you could convince him to put in a good word for you,” Niall says. “Bribe him with food or something. The teachers love him—Merlin knows why, but they’d probably listen.”

Dev snorts. “Maybe if Baz were nicer to Snow, they’d be shagging by now. If that man is straight, I’ll eat the Mage’s ridiculous hat. I’ve told you a million times, no one heterosexual spends _that_ much time staring at their roommate’s nice arse.”

“Fuck off, Dev,” I grumble. “Snow would never put in a good word for me.”

Niall frowns at Dev. “Did you just compliment your cousin’s arse?”

Dev shrugs. “One, he’s not technically my cousin. Two, I’m right, and I should say it. Baz does have a nice arse. Ow!” He rubs his head where Niall’s flicked him. There’s a scuffle when Dev tries to kick Niall under the table.

“Snow’s a wanker anyway,” Niall says to me. “He’s not worth your time. And I’m serious about a Snow quota. For the love of Merlin’s saggy balls, can we _please_ talk about something else?”

The conversation moves on to the Minotaur’s newest nose ring (apparently he’s got seven of them now; I hadn’t noticed), and I just sit there, half-listening, stewing about the football season and Snow and how I’m hopelessly in love with him—emphasis on the _hopelessly_ , because he hates everything about me. 

I’m in a right foul mood by the time I return to our room.


	4. "... but that doesn't make it any less true."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Simon tries to give Juicebox a bath, and Baz accidentally reveals a (not-so-secret) secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [Sconelover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconelover) and [Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire/pseuds/Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire) for being such lovely betas, and to [coolcoolcool_nodoubt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coolcoolcool_nodoubt/pseuds/Coolcoolcool_nodoubt) for brit-picking and being an amazing cheerleader!

_Simon_

“You’ve got to get rid of that creature,” Baz says the moment he enters our room. He glares at the muddy pawprints Juicebox left on the floor and on his bed, and at the smear of blood on his pillow from the bird Juicebox had for dinner. (I meant to clean that up before he got back.) Juicebox hiccups, and a feather floats out of its mouth. Juicebox’s snake head spits out a tiny flame to incinerate it in the air, leaving a light dusting of ash on Baz’s blanket.

“I know. I tried Ebb’s today, but she wasn’t there.”

“Ebb, your girlfriend?”

“Ebb, the goatherd. She likes goats. And Juicebox is part goat.”

_“Attila_ is a goat.”

“His name is Juicebox.”

“Whatever his name is, I want him _gone_.” 

Baz casts **_“Clean as a whistle!”_ ** until his bedding is spotless, then kicks off his shoes, drops his bag on his desk chair, and points his wand at Juicebox.

“Anathema!” I yell reflexively. “Don’t hurt him!”

Baz frowns at me. “First of all, the Anathema doesn’t apply to animals. Second, I’m not going to hurt him. I’m going to spell him clean.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s getting mud all over my bed. And seeing as you can’t seem to keep him _off_ my bed, I have to do my best to mitigate the damage another way.”

“No, I mean, why would you use magic for that? Can’t we just give him a bath?”

Baz raises an eyebrow. “You want to give a chimera a bath.”

I shrug. “It would be a waste of magic to spell him clean. And a real bath gets things cleaner than **_‘Clean as a whistle’_ ** anyway, if you’re so concerned about your bed.”

Lowering his wand, Baz sighs. “Fine, but I’m not helping. And don’t let it touch my soaps.”

I try to lift Juicebox from the bed, but he refuses to budge. What is it with this animal and Baz’s bed? I mean, I’ll admit that Baz smells good, so his bed probably does too. But _still_. “Come on,” I tell Juicebox. “It’s time for your bath. Just—Let go of the blanket, damn it! Juicebox—Juicebox no, don’t! . . . Oh, fuck, not again!”

**_“Make a wish!_ ** Crowley, Snow!”

I give an involuntary cough at the new plume of smoke I try and fail not to inhale. There’s a brand-new burn mark on Baz’s pillow, courtesy of Juicebox. “He doesn’t want to move. I can’t get him to let go of your blanket.”

“Try harder.” Baz sits in his desk chair and turns his back to the room.

I let go of Juicebox and survey the situation. Juicebox won’t let go of the blanket, so I suppose I’ll just have to bring the blanket along too. I grab the ends of it and wad it up, then carry the whole bundle of chimera-in-a-blanket to the ensuite. I dump the bundle unceremoniously on the ground as I turn on the water to fill the tub, move Baz’s soaps out of the way, and check to make sure the water isn’t too hot. (If fire doesn’t hurt Juicebox, I don’t think boiling-hot water would, but I’m the one who’s gonna have to put my hands in it to wash him.)

“Sod off!” I hear Baz grumble from the other room. “Stop that!” I hear a scuffle, and then, “Oh, what the hell.”

I look down to find the blanket next to me empty. I pick it up and lean out the door. Juicebox has curled up on Baz’s lap and is . . . trying to snuggle him? Juicebox clearly didn’t get the memo that Baz Pitch is not the snuggling type. (He’s far too prickly for that.) (Well, except for when I woke up this morning… did that count as snuggling?) (Nope, not gonna think about that now.)

Baz looks up and sneers when he sees me. “Get your pet off of me, Snow.”

I toss the blanket at Baz’s bed and reach for Juicebox, who hisses at me. Well, the snake does. _Lucifer_ or whatever Baz calls it (a ridiculous name, if you ask me). _Jack_ is giving me what looks suspiciously like a raised eyebrow and a curled lip (Did Baz teach him that?). Juicebox snaps at my hand when I reach for him again.

“I think he likes you better than me.”

Baz snorts. “I can’t deny that it has good taste. But I don’t want it.” Yet as he speaks, I see his fingers twitch in Juicebox’s fur, almost like he’s petting it. Baz sees me looking and pulls his hand back.

“Well, as long as you’re so attached to each other, d’you mind bringing him in here and dumping him in the bathtub?”

Juicebox goes willingly enough with Baz carrying him. The problem is that Lucifer has wound itself around Baz’s bicep and refuses to let go. He’s wound so tightly that Baz can’t pry him off. Baz kneels by the edge of the tub, leaning over to put his whole right arm in the water. He completely submerges Lucifer, but Juicebox still won’t let go of him. I suppose with three heads, all is well if at least one of them has access to oxygen.

“Come on, Juicey,” I say. I reach for Juicebox to try to gently unwind him from Baz, but when Lucifer slithers up Baz’s arm to poke his head out of the water and coughs lightly, I snatch my hand back. I dunno if Baz’s arm can still catch on fire when it’s all wet (I know fuck-all about vampire biology), but I’m not keen on testing that right now. Better provoke the chimera as little as possible. “Uh, I’ll just wash him quickly like this, yeah?”

_Baz_

“Just get on with it. And hurry up.” 

Snow grabs one of the bars of Watford’s school-issue soap (the same kind he uses for literally everything, like it’s a 3-in-1 shampoo—it’s appalling) and starts lathering up the chimera’s fur. Lucifer tightens around my arm, his head pressed against my shoulder as Snow soaps up Jack and Attila’s fur. Suddenly Jack growls and bares his teeth. 

“Oh, fuck, sorry,” Snow says. “Think I got soap in his eye— _ow!_ Fuck! Merlin’s fucking tits, that hurt!” Snow’s hand is bleeding where Jack bit it, his blood dripping off his palm and sliding down his arm toward his elbow. It stains the water red where it falls.

“Fuck!” Snow hisses again. “Fucking—oh _shit,_ Baz.” He casts a worried glance at me, looking down at my mouth, which feels fuller than normal with the addition of my fangs. I try to will them back up into my gums, but they won’t retract.

“Snow—” I’m lisping a bit. I cover my mouth with my free hand—the one that’s not currently being squeezed to death by a very pissed off chimera cub. “My wand,” I tell him. “Desk.”

He nods frantically, then retrieves it, stumbling into the doorframe and trailing drops of blood on the bathroom tile on the way out and back. He shoves my wand at me, then stands there looking unsure and a bit apprehensive, hiding his bleeding hand behind his back. (Not that it helps—I can still smell it.) Attila and Jack are both wailing, no doubt at the soap burning their eyes. (It’s not like it’s the gentle, tear-free kind that’s meant for children and pets.) And Lucifer’s grip is turning into a very effective tourniquet. If I actually _needed_ blood in my fingers, this would likely be much more painful than it already is.

“Give me your hand.”

Snow just stares at me, his uninjured hand clutching at his chest—feeling for his cross. _Where_ is _his cross?_ When he doesn’t feel anything there, his eyes grow wider with panic. His eyes are trained on my mouth, which I stupidly left uncovered when I grabbed my wand. “No.”

I grit my teeth. “Give me your _hand_ , Snow.” He’s dripped blood over half the bathroom by now. It’s not a _lot_ of blood, quantity-wise, but he’s sure making a mess with it. A trail of it staining the tile, the bath rug, the bathwater, his shirt . . . 

He shakes his head, still staring at my mouth. “You—You’re—”

“I won’t hurt you,” I say. He shakes his head and looks like he’s on the verge of going off—I can smell his magic now, too, mixed with the buttered-popcorn scent of his blood—so I say it again, more emphatically. “I won’t hurt you, I swear. I’m just going to close the wound. You’re scaring the chimera.”

His expression doesn’t relax, but he tentatively extends his hand toward me anyway. I swap my wand to my other hand so I can take him by the wrist and pull him to kneel in front of me. I take his hand in mine—smearing his blood all over both of us—and I touch the tip of my wand to the open wound. _**"**_ ** _Get well soon!_** _ **”**_ The gashes knit together, and although there’s still blood everywhere, his hand is at least not producing any more of it. 

Snow stares down at his hand in disbelief.

_Simon_

I don’t know what shocks me more—that Baz didn’t attack me, even though I’m covered in blood and not wearing my cross (though the Anathema still holds, so maybe that’s why); that Baz said he wouldn’t hurt me, _again,_ and seemed like he actually meant it; that I finally got a glimpse of Baz’s fangs, which are long and sharp and wicked cool; or that Baz used his magic to heal me. He’s never done that before. When I get hurt, he usually just laughs and walks away. 

I glance up from my newly healed hand to see a flash of that same expression that unnerved me yesterday cross Baz’s face again. He’s nervous about something. About what? Is he scared of me? Of Juicebox? _He’s_ the one who’s a fucking vampire! _Baz is actually a vampire._ This is proof. I mean, I knew before, but now I _know_. It’s different. 

So why is _he_ scared? I narrow my eyes at him, trying to figure out what’s going on inside his head, not that I’ve ever been able to figure out what goes on inside Baz’s head. Juicebox starts thrashing around in the water, trying to jump out of the tub and at Baz, hissing and growling.

“Juicebox, stop!” I rip my hand out of Baz’s and try to push Juicebox back into the bath and away from him, but all that happens is Juicebox wails louder and splashes harder, and soon both Baz and I are soaked. “Bloody hell, Juicebox! Stop that! Stay away from Baz!”

“It’s okay,” Baz says, and places a cool hand on my arm, pushing me gently away. He picks up the very wet, angry, shivering chimera and holds it to his chest, wrapping his free arm around it. “It’s okay,” he says again, softly. After a few minutes of Baz speaking soothingly and holding him tightly, Juicebox’s wails simmer down to a whimper. It’s mesmerising. I wonder if Baz is using his thrall to calm him down.

Baz turns his stormy grey eyes on me. “Grab that towel,” he says, and I do. I yank it off the rack behind me, ignoring the smears of bloody water I get on it, and drape it over Juicebox, tucking the ends of it between the chimera and Baz’s chest, and under Baz’s arm. The snake loosens its grip a little—finally—and Baz takes the opportunity to gently pry it off his bicep. 

I can’t help but notice how nice Baz’s arms are. His wet shirt is clinging to his skin everywhere, and I can see the definition of every single perfect muscle through the transparent fabric. It’s not like I haven’t seen his arms before. I see them all the time when I watch him at football practice. But I’m usually distracted by his legs then, or by his plots. (He’s always plotting.) Right now I’m just focused on the gentle way he’s cradling Juicebox, the careful way he’s wiping the soapy water away from Juicebox’s eyes. Who knew Baz was capable of being soft?

I’ve never seen this side of him before. It makes me feel a bit funny. My stomach feels restless, and my heart’s beating a little too fast, and there’s a strange pressure in my chest. It’s almost like I’m nervous, or excited, or . . . scared? No. I’m not actually scared of him. I’m . . .

Oh, shit.

I’m attracted to Baz. 

It doesn’t mean anything, though. Doesn’t everyone find Baz attractive? It’s just an objective fact that he’s physically attractive, right? I’ve always been aware of that particular fact. I just thought it only applied to everyone _else_. Not to me. 

Maybe I’m not as immune to Baz’s charms as I thought. Or maybe he’s using his vampire thrall on me, to confuse me. How would I know if he were?

“Go ahead,” Baz says. I tear my eyes away from his chest—I didn’t realize I’d still been staring at it—to find him gazing coldly down at me. “Do it.”

“Do what?”

“Kill me. Tell the Mage. Get me expelled, cast out, locked up. Which is it going to be?” He spits the words like they’ve burned him. (I’m not sure they haven’t burned _me_ , what with the amount of venom he’s put behind them.)

I frown at him. “Why would I do that? I can’t kill you here. And what are you talking about, ‘ _tell the Mage'?_ Tell him what?”

Baz glares at me like I’m an idiot. I hate it when he does that. When he acts like _I’m_ the one being stupid, when _he’s_ the one being all mood-swingy and cryptic. “You know what.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Stop lying!” The outburst of emotion scares Juicebox, who starts whimpering again. Baz strokes his back to calm him down, and lowers his voice to a more normal volume. “We both know you’re going to do it, so stop putting it off. There’s no point in prolonging it now.”

“Prolonging what?” I can feel my magic rising, and I try to tamp it down, but Baz is really pushing my buttons today. He knows exactly how to get under my skin, and he’s ruthless about it. 

I’m going to make him say it. I want him to admit to me that he’s a vampire.

“Crowley, Snow! What did I just say? Kill me, or tell the Mage what I am so _he_ can kill me. If I have a choice, I’d prefer it be you who drives the sword through my heart, but I am aware that my personal preferences regarding my own execution will not likely be taken into consideration.”

“I—What? Baz—”

“Use your words. Don’t be a coward about it.”

“I’m not a fucking coward!” My vision’s starting to go a bit hazy around the edges. Juicebox sneezes—I’m not sure which head, though. I can’t look away from Baz. “Why do you always have to go for the lowest blow? Why do you always have to be _such_ an arse about everything? It’s like you want me to kill you!”

“Maybe I do.”

“I—” I search Baz’s face, looking for a sign that he’s having me on, just trying to rile me up. But I don’t find one. He stares back at me coldly, his face impassive. It’s fucking infuriating. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, doing my best to calm down. I tense all of my muscles and then relax them, one by one, until the haze fades and I don’t feel quite as much like I’m going to go off. 

I open my eyes. Baz is still watching me intently. “You meant that.”

He blinks. “I did.” He’s clutching the chimera pretty close to his chest—Juicebox yelps, and Baz relaxes his grip.

“Why?”

Baz grimaces and looks away. “Plenty of reasons—take your pick. Because I’m a monster. Because I don’t deserve to live. Because I’m already dead. Because if anyone is going to kill me, I’d rather it be you who does it than the _fucking_ Mage. It would be fitting for it to be you. Poetic, or something. We’ve always known it’s going to end with my death. Why waste time arguing about it?”

“For someone so smart, you’re not making any sense,” I tell him. “Yeah, we’re supposed to fight each other eventually, or whatever. But you might just as easily kill me as I would kill you when it comes time for that. And I’m not about to stab you with the Sword of Mages right now, am I?”

Baz shakes his head and turns even more, enough that I can’t see his face at all, just the back of his head and his hair, which is starting to become wavy from the water Juicebox splashed on him. “You’re wrong. It would never have ended with me killing you.”

“Why not? You’re stronger than me, and a better mage, and fucking amazing in a fight, and—”

He cuts me off. “None of that matters.”

“Of course it does.” I clench my hands into fists, and pound one of them into the slick tile. Why won’t he just say what he means? 

“It _doesn’t_. Because I would never hurt you. I couldn’t.”

“I don’t—”

“I know!” he bursts, turning back to face me. His eyes are red-rimmed and watery. “I know you don’t believe me. But that doesn’t make it any less true.”

Before I can find the words to respond, Baz has stood up, spelled away the blood and the pools of water on the floor, spelled himself and his clothes and Juicebox dry, and shoved the chimera into my arms. He leaves the ensuite, and I don’t try to follow him. I stay there on the bathroom floor holding the chimera until I start to lose feeling in my right leg from sitting on the hard tile. Then I gather myself and Juicebox (who looks quite sleepy) and return to our room to find Baz already curled up under the covers.

In his own bed.

I dunno why that hurts, but it does. I swallow hard against the lump in my throat and set Juicebox down so I can change into pajamas. Juicebox leaps up onto Baz’s bed and snuggles up to his back. I consider trying to move him, but Juicebox hasn’t been producing as many accidental fireballs this evening, and Lucifer is hanging over the edge of the bed away from him, anyway. He’ll be fine. I leave Juicebox there, get into my bed, and roll over to face the wall, pushing my feelings deep, deep down.

It’s better not to think about it.


	5. "There's no need to insult me before you kill me."

_Simon_

Baz isn’t in his bed when I wake up.

Juicebox is curled up on his pillow, but Baz is gone. I panic and rush across the room, afraid that Juicebox might have turned Baz into ash while I was asleep, but when I don’t see any burn marks or soot or any other traces of fire, I breathe a sigh of relief. His shoes are gone, and so is his wand, so he must have gone down to breakfast already. It’s not like him to get up so early, but he might’ve done if he were trying to avoid me. Which I imagine he is, based on how he was acting last night.

I slept later than I’d planned, so there’s not time to take Juicebox down to Ebb’s before breakfast—I’ll have to go after classes instead. I get dressed and grab my bag (plus a packet of Baz’s crisps to bribe Juicebox into the bag with after he does his business outside), and head out.

* * *

Baz isn’t at breakfast.

His mates are sitting at his table without him. They don’t look too concerned about Baz’s absence, but maybe they don’t know he’s not where he’s supposed to be. They might be thinking he’s just skipping breakfast again. He does that a lot, like when he wants to sleep a bit longer, or when he wants to spend extra time on his hair in the morning, or when he’s just been hunting the night before. But I know Baz isn’t sleeping or in the shower, and he didn’t go hunting last night.

I try not to think about it too much, though I can’t help but worry that he’s plotting something. Besides, trying not to think about Baz is like . . . Well, it’s like trying not to think about scones when there’s a plate full of hot, fresh sour cherry ones right in front of you. I told Penny that once, and she said, _There are more important things in life than Baz and scones._ (I’m not sure I agree, but Penny’s never loved scones quite as much as I do.)

“Hi Simon, sorry I’m late.” Penny slides into the seat across from me, and I push her plate of breakfast towards her. It’s a ritual of ours—whoever gets to the dining hall first gets a plate for the other (or two plates, when it’s Penny getting the meal for me). “I was in the library early this morning and lost track of time.” 

“Can you take care of this? Before he gets too restless?” I pass Penny my wriggling bag under the table, and she casts the spells for the little window and to make Juicebox look like a housecat again. Then she tries to cast a lullaby spell. It’s a different one than Baz used, and it doesn’t work as well, but it helps some. Juicebox might not be asleep, but he’s at least calmed down a bit. I open the bag to peek at him, and he’s curled up like he’s ready for a nap. He licks some crisp crumbs from around his mouth, and Attila rips off a piece of the crisp packet and swallows it. Juicebox looks up at me from the bottom of the bag and lazily raises one eyebrow. It really is taking after Baz. Speaking of Baz . . . 

“Did you see Baz?” I ask Penny.

“Where? In the library?”

“Yeah.” Maybe he’s skiving off breakfast to slip down to the library when he thinks no one will notice that he’s breaking suspension. I notice, though. I always notice Baz. (But I’m definitely _not_ thinking about why that is. It’s certainly not because I find him attractive. Not at all. That particular realisation has nothing to do with it whatsoever. I just need to keep an eye on what he’s plotting.)

“No, I didn’t.” She frowns at me, then sighs. “I really hate to ask, but . . . why? Is Basil not up in your room?”

I shake my head. “He was gone when I woke up.”

“But you’re both suspended.”

“Exactly! He’s not where he’s supposed to be. And I’m pretty sure he’s—”

Penny clamps her hands over her face and groans. “I swear, Si, if you say ‘ _he’s plotting_ ’—”

“I wasn’t going to!” Penny peeks through her fingers at me. “Okay, fine,” I mutter. “I _was_ going to say he’s plotting. But what if he really is?”

“Or what if,” Penny says, “he just went to talk to a professor about something. Or what if he was feeling ill and went to the infirmary. Or maybe—”

“Baz isn’t ill.” Baz wouldn’t be ill. Baz doesn’t _get_ ill. In all the years we’ve been roommates, Baz has never once had a cold, or a fever, or a stomach bug, or anything. I’ve been ill plenty of times. But he hasn’t. (Probably because of the whole vampire thing.) 

“You don’t know that.”

“I _do_ , Penny! He can’t get ill, because he’s a vampire.”

Penny rolls her eyes so hard and for so long that I’m afraid they might get stuck up there inside her head. “Simon. We’ve been through this. It’s unconfirmed. You don’t have any proof.”

“Actually, I—” I freeze, the words halfway out of my mouth. 

“You what?” Penny prods. “Did you see something? Did you catch him drinking blood? Did you see his fangs?” She’s smirking, obviously expecting me to say _no_ , like all the other times I’ve told her about Baz.

“I—” I can trust Penny with this, right? She’s always been on my side. But _my side_ meant trying to expose Baz before. It meant trying to rat him out to the whole school. It meant we both wanted the same things . . . things I’m not sure I want anymore. (Like getting rid of Baz for good.) What do I do if my side isn’t _my side_ , anymore? And what side is Penny on now?

“Simon? Is everything alright?”

“I—I’m worried about him.” The words hang heavy in the air between us. Penny raises an eyebrow at me (which reminds me of Baz), and more words come tumbling out of my mouth. “He wasn’t there when I woke up, and I thought he was dead, but his shoes were gone, and he’s not in the library, and he didn’t eat breakfast, but his bed wasn’t burnt, and—”

“Slow down,” Penny says, reaching across the table to place a hand over mine, stilling my fingers where they’re aggressively picking apart a scone (poor scone—it didn’t deserve that). “None of what you just said made any sense, but I’m sure Basil is alright. He’ll probably turn up in Greek like always. I’ve never known him to miss class before. Why don’t we head over to the classroom and wait for him?”

I take a deep breath. She’s right. Baz never misses class. He’ll be there. “Okay. Let’s go.”

* * *

Baz doesn’t show up to class.

The Minotaur—Professor Minos—calls his name in Greek, but of course he can’t answer, because he’s not there. The same thing happens in Magic Words. And in Political Science. And then again in Elocution, where Madam Bellamy gives me an odd look when she realizes Baz is absent. 

She calls me up to her desk after class and asks me where he is. I stammer out a flimsy excuse about him having a headache, but she doesn’t bat an eye. She just hands me a copy of the homework to take to him and tells me she hopes he recovers over the weekend. I take the homework and all but run out of the classroom before she can ask me any more questions. (And before she can comment on the bleating sounds and smoke emanating from my bag.)

* * *

Baz isn’t in our room when I get back.

I drop the homework on his desk and open my bag. Juicebox flies out like a bat out of hell and throws himself at the door. He whines and growls and hisses (all at once, because of the three heads thing). I really don’t want to have to clean piss off the floor again, especially without the help of Baz’s spellwork, so I grab Juicebox and head out right away. I don’t bother with the bag, opting to just carry Juicebox in my arms and hope he doesn’t scratch me up too badly.

I still need to ask Ebb if she can take care of him, but I decide to go by the Catacombs first. I have a feeling I’ll find Baz down there somewhere (or at least I’m hoping I will, because I don’t know where else to look if he’s not there).

I set off for the Catacombs at a run.

* * *

  
  


_Baz_

  
The first time I came down to the Catacombs was when I was a child. I came with my father and Fiona to visit my mother’s tomb, shortly after it was created. It’s only her bones that are in there; that’s all that was left by the time someone extinguished the fire. Her bones, the piles of ashes she’d turned the vampires into, and me. When they found me, I had bite marks in my neck, but I wasn’t fully Turned yet. I couldn’t have been, because the fire left burns all over my arms and legs, like it would a human child. My father and Fiona healed my wounds—the burns, the bruises, the punctures in my neck. By the time they took me home, I looked for all the world like I hadn’t been harmed. I don’t even have scars where I was bitten. 

But to say that day didn’t leave a mark on me would be the furthest thing from the truth. 

Snow is right when he says I’m a dark creature. I’m not human. I’m not even _alive._ And the worst part is that I’m not fully dead either. The dead get to rest; the living get to… well, _live_. I get neither.

I used to come down here to the Catacombs because I felt more at home among the dead than among the living. But lately, I don’t feel I belong here, either. I look at the piles of skulls and bones of all the people who died at Watford, and I’m envious. Even though so many of them are unnamed, forgotten, they’re at peace wherever they are. They’re not _stuck_ in limbo like I am, neither fully in this world nor fully in the next. 

I conjure a flame in my hand and let it snake between my fingers, lying on my back on the cold stone ground and holding my arm above my head. I’ve been down here since before the sun came up this morning, just waiting. Waiting and thinking and talking to my mother (though she never answers). Snow will come looking for me eventually, and he’ll do the right thing. I know he will. He’ll be the hero. He’ll drive his sword through my pathetic heart and put an end to this halfway hell that is my life.

I want to move on, but I want to go with Simon’s kiss on my lips. I want his plain blue eyes to be the last thing I see.

I close my fist around the flame to extinguish it, and then I close my eyes to wait. I’ll wait as long as it takes for him to find me.

* * *

_Simon_

I find Baz in the Catacombs, lying on the ground by his mother’s tomb, much like the last time I followed him down here. He’s so still and pale and cold that he looks half-dead himself (more than he usually does, anyway). The sight of him makes my chest hurt, and I can’t help but fall to my knees beside him. Juicebox squirms in my grip, so I let him loose and he runs off, probably chasing down some rats for dinner. (Sometimes I wonder how overrun with rats this place would be if it weren’t for Baz eating them. I think I’d rather not know.)

“Come to end it, Snow?” Baz mutters, without opening his eyes, without moving at all apart from his lips. “Took you longer than I expected.”

“I’m not—”

“Please, spare me.” He sighs, cracks one eye open to peer coldly at me, then shuts it again. “I’ve said my goodbyes to anyone who would care that I’m gone. Just get on with it.” 

His tone is bitter, grating. I open my mouth to tell him off for being an annoying git, and then I shut it when I see the tension around his eyes and the set of his mouth. He’s in pain, but he’s trying to hide it. “You’re _such_ a git,” I say anyway.

That gets him to open his eyes, at least. He pushes up on one elbow and glares at me. “There’s no need to insult me before you kill me.”

I growl, unable to help it. I should probably be using a soothing voice or reassuring him or something right now, since he clearly has some kind of death wish, but he’s just so fucking infuriating. “Stop that. Just—stop. Stop fucking saying that.”

“It’s not my job to make you feel better about offing me.”

“I don’t want that! I’m not going to kill you. I’m not—I swear I’m not.”

Baz sits up fully at that, straightening his back and drawing level with me. “You aren’t making any sense, Snow.”

“I’m making perfect sense!”

“You’re the hero. You’re supposed to kill me. It’s the right thing to do, so you’ll do it.”

I hit his chest with my fist, not too hard, but it startles him. “Don’t fucking act like you know what I’ll do. You don’t get to make my decisions for me.”

“I’m not. The Mage is. He told you that you’ll have to kill me, and you’ll do as he says.”

“No I fucking won’t.”

“You always have before. Without ever hesitating or questioning why.”

“Yeah, well, people change. I’m not a twelve-year-old kid anymore. I’m still figuring things out, but I make my own decisions now. And anyway, you haven’t. Not everyone.”

Baz’s frown deepens into one of confusion. “I haven’t what?”

“You haven’t said goodbye,” I say quietly. “Not to everyone that would care if you—Not to everyone.”

“You don’t even know who I’ve said goodbye to.” He’s still frowning at me, that familiar wrinkle between his eyebrows. I want to smooth it out with my thumb. I want to take him in my arms and tell him—Tell him . . . 

My throat feels tight, and the lump won’t budge no matter how hard I swallow around it. I find myself squeezing my eyes shut against the moisture threatening to spill out the corners.

“You haven’t said goodbye to me.”

_Baz_

I collapse back onto the ground, the breath knocked out of me by the force of Simon’s words. I came down here prepared to die. I thought I was prepared for anything Snow could throw at me, but I wasn’t prepared for this, whatever _this_ is. _You haven’t said goodbye to me_ , he said, as if he cares. As if . . .

I’m saved the need to respond by a sudden weight on my chest and the scratch of claws on my shoulder. A small bleat is the only warning I get before Jack is rubbing his nose into my neck, purring, and Attila is licking my cheeks, covering me in goat spit. "Hey, stop that," I protest, but only weakly. I don’t mind it as much as I should, given the indignity of it all. I push myself up into a seated position and wrap my arms around the chimera in my lap. In return, Lucifer wraps himself around my forearm and squeezes it.

I’m suddenly overwhelmed. It’s too much. Spending all day thinking I was going to die, Snow's unexpected mercy, his assertion that he’d care if I died, and now an outpouring of affection from a creature I didn't even want to care for in the first place. Everything I've been bottling up is threatening to spill over, and I don't have the strength to resist. So, I let go.

_Simon_

I think Baz has finally lost the plot. He hugs Juicebox and buries his face in his fur, and then he starts laughing. Maniacally. His shoulders shake and he clutches at Juicebox, fingers digging into his fur. Juicebox squirms, then coughs. Lucifer sticks his forked tongue in Baz’s ear, but either Baz doesn’t notice or he doesn’t care, because he keeps right on laughing. Jack makes an unhappy noise when Baz squeezes a little too tightly.

"Be careful," I say. "Juicebox is starting to smoke."

The moment the words leave my mouth, Bazs laughs become sobs. Wet, ugly, ragged sounds. He lets go of Juicebox—who leaps off Baz’s lap and sits primly at his side instead—and tucks his knees up to his chest, folding his arms across the top of them and hiding his face in the crook of his elbow. He looks so much smaller like this, all hunched over and folded into himself. 

I've never been good at comforting people when they cry. Agatha always wanted to be left alone when she cried; anything I said or did seemed to make it worse. Penny likes to be held, either by the hand or in my arms, but I don't know if Baz would appreciate that. I’d think he probably wouldn't; he doesn't seem like the hugging type. But after yesterday morning, when I woke up to his arms around me, I’m not so sure. I remember the way he held me around the waist and pulled me closer to him. The way he pressed his cold nose to the back of my neck and hummed softly in his sleep.

I’m realizing there's a lot more to Baz than I thought. More than he's ever shown me. Considering the way I've treated him since, well, as long as I've known him, it's not surprising that he'd want to keep this side of himself hidden from me. Hell, even three days ago, if I'd seen his fangs and come down here and found him weak and crying and vulnerable . . . 

Merlin, I've been a huge fucking idiot.

_Baz_

I'm embarrassed to be crying in front of Snow, and I'm ashamed that he's seeing me like this. I wanted to die with at least some of my dignity intact. I _am_ a Pitch, after all. But I can't stop myself. I've been holding these tears back for eight years . . . no, longer than that. Since I was five. Since I died the first time. Since I lost my mother. 

Snow moves suddenly next to me, and I can't help but flinch away. I don't even bother to look up. But when I feel something touch my back, right behind my heart, it's not the tip of his sword. It's not cold or hard or painful. It doesn't slice through the layers of fabric and skin and muscle. No, it's warm and soft and gentle. Snow's fingers splay across my shoulder blade, almost a caress. 

Before my exhausted and overstimulated brain can process what's happening, Snow shifts again, moving to sit on the side of me that's not currently occupied by Jack, Attila, and Lucifer. He leaves his arm around me and his hand on my back, his thumb rubbing soft circles into the fabric of my jumper. 

It only makes me cry harder. Once again, I had expected ridicule and cruelty from him. I wasn't prepared for kindness, and somehow that hurts even more. 

_Simon_

Baz lets me put my arm around his shoulders, but when I try to wrap my other arm around him and pull him against my chest, he pushes me away. He twists out from under my hands and turns his back to me, putting a foot or two of distance between us. Juicebox follows him, snuggling up to his side again, and Baz softly strokes his back. I feel the same twinge of hurt and confusion that I did when I saw Baz in his own bed last night. Like I've lost something important.

"Baz—" I start, my voice a whisper.

He shakes his head, just once, and I fall silent. "Don't say anything. Please, Simon."

He's _still_ crying, and I don't know what to do. I just want him to stop. I want him to stop pushing me away. I want him to see that I don’t want to hurt him. I need him to see that I won’t hurt him. Not now, not ever.

I need him to trust me. 

I reach out one hand tentatively, bridging the space between us. I rest my hand between his shoulder blades, lightly, in case he wants to move away again. He shivers, but he leans back into it, ever so slightly. I scoot across the floor until I'm sitting back on my heels in front of him. I take him by the chin and pull his face up so that I can see him.

The light in here is dim and wavering, and half his face is in shadow, and the moisture in my eyes is making everything all blurry and wobbly. But I've never seen Baz so clearly in my life.

_Baz_

I'm going to kiss him. This beautiful idiot is still here, on his knees in front of me, despite how many times I've pushed him away. I've spent years pushing him away, closing myself off, building walls . . . all for them to come crumbling down with one touch. 

I'm weak. 

I'm tired.

I can't pretend anymore.

I'm going to kiss Simon Snow.

_Simon_

Baz has stopped crying, but he's still shaking. I take one of his hands and press it between mine to try to stop it from trembling. He's looking at me the way he does when he wants to hit me. Well, no—not _quite_ like that. His gaze is equally as intense, but the lines around his eyes are softer, his lips gently parted rather than pressed together in a scowl. There's no anger in his eyes, no hatred. His features are open and vulnerable. 

His eyes are so bright, and his lips are so soft . . . He catches his breath when I lean in. I think he might have stopped breathing altogether.

_Baz_

I can't remember how to breathe, because Simon Snow is kissing me, and the rest of the world has fallen away.

It's a good thing I don't actually _need_ to breathe.

_Simon_

Kissing Baz is nothing like I expected. For one thing, it's a lot wetter. (Because of the tears, not because he's a particularly messy kisser.) (Though he is a bit of that, too. I think it might be his first kiss.) (That doesn't deter me, though. The thought of being Baz's first kiss sends a thrill down my spine.)

For another thing, the kiss is so gentle. The Baz in my head is all fire and determination, but the Baz in my arms kisses me back almost shyly. (Another reason I think it might be his first kiss.)

But the main reason it's different than I expected is that I _like_ it. A _lot_. I'd never considered kissing a boy before, let alone _Baz Pitch_. But now that I am, I don't think I'll ever want to kiss anyone else ever again.

I wonder if Baz will let me kiss him again, sometime when he's not crying. Sometime when we're not down here in the creepy Catacombs next to his mum's tomb. (No offense to his mum, but I'm not keen on the idea of her ghost watching us snog.)

Is that what we're doing? Snogging? I haven't even tried to put my tongue in his mouth yet. I don't know if he'd want me to do that. Would his fangs get in the way? Is that why he's never kissed anyone before? Because of the fangs? I'm considering pressing my tongue against his lips just to see how he responds, but we're interrupted by Juicebox, who pounces on me almost hard enough to knock me over. Baz grabs my elbow and steadies me while I let go of him to catch Juicebox in my arms. 

Crisis averted, I lean in to kiss Baz again, but Juicebox beats me to it, licking at Baz's chin. He makes a face and pushes the chimera off of him. "Attila, no, stop that. Stop it," he mutters, but he's smiling. I grin back at him, and he catches my eye, and we both break down into giggles.

Once we've caught our breath, I stand and offer my hand to Baz. "Come on," I say. "Let's take this little guy to Ebb's and go home."

"Home?" That wrinkle appears between Baz's eyebrow again, but he takes my hand and stands up.

"Our room," I say. "The only place that's ever felt like home."


	6. "There's both good and bad in power like that."

_Simon_

Ebb’s out in front of her barn rounding up all the goats when we get there. She’s using magic to do it—waving her staff around and singing. 

“Hiya Simon!” she calls as we approach. 

“Hi Ebb!” I call back. We make our way across the grass to her.

“And who’s that you’ve got there?” Ebb asks, leaning in and smiling at Juicebox, who seems to be quite content in Baz’s arms.

“A chimera. Well, a baby one. We found him. In the Wavering Wood.”

“Oh, my. Well let me just get the nannies settled and then I want to hear how this all came to be.” Ebb herds the last of the goats into the barn, then turns to us. Her eyes are red and puffy—she’s been crying again. (She does that a lot.) 

“Are you going to introduce me?” Baz says under his breath.

“Oh, right. Um, this is Ebb. Ebb, this is my roommate, Baz.”

“Hello, Mr Pitch,” Ebb says. “You look just like your mum. I remember her standing in almost that very spot more than once, back when she was headmistress.”

Baz’s eyes go wide. “You knew my mother?”

Ebb nods, and a single tear slips down her cheek. She wipes it away with the sleeve of her oversized sweater. “She taught Magic Words when I went to school here. And she’s the one who got me this job. Gave me another chance, after… Well, why don’t you boys come inside. You tell me your story, and I’ll tell you one of mine.”

“Inside where?” Baz asks, looking around. “Is your house nearby?”

Ebb laughs. “In the barn,” she says. “Come on, now. I’ll make tea.”

Baz doesn’t exactly look excited about the prospect of being in a barn, and I see him wrinkle his nose a bit, but he follows Ebb inside anyway. 

  
  


_Baz_

The inside of the barn is not at all what I expected. We have to walk through a herd of goats (alright, that part was expected) to get to the back, where the goatherd—Ebb—has set up some sort of sitting room. An ancient potbelly stove appears to be the centerpiece, and it’s got a table and a sofa and an armchair arranged around it. There’s a set of shelves behind the sofa that are covered in dusty ceramic figurines, which on second glance all seem to be animals. (Mostly goats. She seems to be a bit obsessed with them, though I suppose liking goats is part of the job description.) 

Simon sees me looking and gently nudges my arm before pointing in their direction. “Some of those were from me. I bring her one every year for Christmas.” I’m not entirely sure what to make of that, but the thought of Simon picking out a ceramic goat to give to his friend the goatherd is endearing.

“Sit down,” Ebb says, gesturing at the sofa. Simon takes one side of it, and I sink into the cushion next to him. The chimera’s claws dig into my thigh as it tries to find a comfortable position. Jack and Attila settle their heads against my chest, and Lucifer coils up on my leg, his head resting on my knee. I pat Attila on the head and he bleats at me. Jack licks my forearm.

Ebb brings us both biscuits and tea. I drink the tea, but I avoid the biscuits. I am apparently not going to be outed as a vampire by Snow today, but I don’t want to push my luck by accidentally showing my fangs to the goatherd.

“You knew my mother?” I ask her again, once we’re all settled, Simon and I on the sofa, Ebb in the armchair. “Can you tell me about her? What was she like?” My father and Fiona talk about my mother rarely, and when they do, they say little. And everyone else talks about her the way one talks about historical figures, not the way anyone would talk about someone they actually knew. But Ebb seems like the straightforward, honest type. I wonder what she’ll say.

“She was fierce as a lion,” Ebb says, her eyes glistening. “A good woman. Fearless, too. She didn’t shy away from the darker magicks—but she had good intentions whenever she used them. She loved Watford, and she loved magic. More than she loved anything, except her family.” Ebb pauses and sniffles, then digs around in her pocket and pulls out a grimy-looking handkerchief. “She’d be proud of you,” she says, turning to me. “She’d be proud of who you’ve become.”

We’re all silent for a moment, Ebb and Simon waiting for me to respond, I myself finding words unwieldy. “I’m not sure she would,” I say, after a while. “I’m not the same boy she left. I’m not at all what she expected me to be.”

“Why?” Ebb says. “Because you’re a vampire?”

The tea I just sipped sprays out of my mouth as I choke on her words. Jack growls at me, displeased at the mess I made on his fur. “What?”

“It’s okay,” she says. She sniffles again, and a few tears slip down her cheeks. “I won’t turn you in. I’ve known since the day Natasha died. Well, I suspected. And I could tell . . . “ she trails off, then sniffles some more. “My brother,” she says. “He’s one too. The only mage who chose to cross over. They struck him from the Book, snapped his wand, pulled out his fangs. Mistress Pitch let me keep the words, though. His name. _Nicodemus Petty._ ”

The next question falls from my lips, though I’m not sure I want to hear the answer. “Was he… was he there? When my mother died?”

Ebb shakes her head sharply and a bit defensively. “No. No, he wasn’t involved. The nursery mistress swore he wasn’t there that day, and anyway, I know he’d never do a thing like that. He never wanted to hurt people. He just wanted to live forever.” 

“Is he… still alive?”

Ebb nods. “I think I’d know if something happened to him. We’re twins, you know. I’ve always been able to feel it when he’s in trouble. I’m certain he’s still out there.”

“Where is he now?” This question comes from Simon. I want to know everything. I want to ask her to tell me _everything_. About my mother, about the day she died, about her brother and the vampires and everything else. But I sit frozen, my brain caught on the fact that Ebb knows I’m a vampire, knew my mother, and _still_ thinks that she would have been proud of me. I so desperately want to believe her.

“I don’t know,” Ebb says. “I haven’t talked to him since the day he left.”

“Ebb,” I say, when I’m able to force the words past the lump in my throat. “You said my mother would be proud of me. Of what I’ve become. But I’ve become the very thing she hated most. How could that possibly be true?”

Simon fumbles for my hand, and I let him take it. His fingers are warm and comforting around mine. Ebb turns her teary eyes back to me and smiles softly. “You’re not a monster, Basil. You’re just a boy.” She looks at me a long moment, then wipes a few more tears from her cheeks and continues. “I’ve watched you for nearly eight years. The only person you’ve ever tried to hurt intentionally was Simon, and even then, you haven’t seriously tried to hurt him in a long time. I’ve seen you going into the woods to feed, and the dryads tell me you only ever drink from animals. You’re not a monster. Not even close.”

“But I—” I start, but Ebb isn’t finished.

“You’re so very like your mother,” she says. “Powerful and kind. You’ve got a good heart. Really, the biggest difference between you and her is that you hold back. You’re afraid to use your power.”

“I’m not afraid,” I say.

“You are, though. You know what your mother used to say to me? She’d say, ‘Power doesn’t have to be a burden.’ Whenever I was worried about my own magic and what would come next, she’d say, ‘Let it go, Ebeneza.’ She’d tell me, ‘You were born with it, but it doesn’t have to be your destiny.’”

Simon chokes on a biscuit beside me, giggling a bit. I glare at him. “What is so funny, Snow?”

“Sorry,” he says. “Just—Ebb, I never knew your name was _Ebeneza_.” He giggles again. 

Ebb laughs, too. “It’s a perfectly good name!” she says. “It’s traditional.”

“Were you here?” I interrupt. “When she died?”

Ebb sobers and Simon squeezes my hand again. “I was out with the goats,” she says softly. “I couldn’t have helped her. I could have, if I’d been . . . but I wasn’t. I didn’t know until . . . Until it was too late.” She stands, then, and squeezes herself in on the other side of me, on the sofa, then puts her arm around me. “I’m sorry, Basil. I’m sorry you had to grow up without your mum. I’m right, though, you know. She would be proud of you. I know she would. Maybe not so pleased about the way you hold back from using all your power, but proud still.”

“I don’t,” I whisper. “I don’t hold back. I’ve never held back from using my magic.”

Ebb shakes her head. “Not just your magic. _All_ your power.”

I frown at her. I’m not sure I like the direction this conversation is going. “What do you mean?”

“You didn’t have a choice about becoming a vampire. It was something done to you against your will. It’s not your fault. But you act like it is. You treat it like a curse—”

“It _is_ a curse,” I say. 

Ebb shrugs, and for a moment she reminds me of Simon. I can see why they get along so well. 

“Parts of it, yes. But some of it is a gift. There’s a reason Nicky left . . . There’s a reason he wanted me to go with him. To the vampires, that is. But that’s the thing. He _chose_ death with the vampires. That’s why he doesn’t . . .” she trails off, and looks around nervously. “I really shouldn’t be talking about Nicky.” 

She turns her gaze back to me, and her expression softens. “My point is, you’ve been given extra power whether you want it or not. Same as Simon. Same as me. I always had more power than sense… I was a powder keg when I was young. Still am, though I’m better at controlling it now. And Simon… well. You know how volatile Simon’s magic can be. There’s both good and bad in having power like that. Your condition isn’t all that different. 

“But like I’ve told Simon—and now I’ll tell you, too—you’ve got to start seeing the good as well as the bad. You’ve got to stop punishing yourself. You think you deserve the part of it that’s a curse, so you accept that. You accept the pain, the loneliness. You call yourself a monster. But you haven’t accepted the part of it that’s good, the part that makes you strong, the part that may one day help you protect the people you love.”

If Ebb sees my eyes flick over to Simon at that last word, she doesn’t acknowledge it.

“Er,” Simon says. “For what it’s worth, I think Ebb’s right. Some of it’s pretty cool. Like your fangs.”

I frown at him. “You like my fangs? _Why?_ ”

Simon flushes and won’t look me in the eye. “I just think they’re wicked cool.”

 _Interesting._ I decide to file _that_ bit of information away for later.

“Oh, Simon,” Ebb says. “I found something in the Wavering Wood that I think is yours.” She digs around in her pocket again and pulls out something on a golden chain. My stomach drops, and I yank my hand away from Simon’s. There’s an unpleasant buzzing in my jaw that intensifies as Ebb holds out Simon’s cross.

Simon leans across me and takes it, and I lean as far back from it as I can. I wait for him to put it on. To shut me out. For things to go back to the way they were.

Simon looks at it, frowning, then looks up at me. I try to keep my expression neutral, but he must see something in my eyes, because the wrinkle in his forehead deepens, and he chews on his lower lip. The hand with the cross moves towards me, and I flinch, but he’s only handing it back to Ebb. Ebb takes it, and Simon places his empty hand on my knee. “You can keep it, Ebb,” he says, then holds my gaze. “I don’t need it anymore.”

“Alright, Simon, dear,” Ebb says, giving Simon a smile and a knowing sort of look, at which Simon flushes again and ducks his head. Ebb stands and, thankfully, takes the cross to the other side of the room. “I’ll just put it up here with the figurines, shall I?”

I feel something bump against my legs, and I look down to see that one of Ebb’s goats has wandered over and is seemingly trying to impress Attila by chewing on the leg of my trousers. 

“Oh!” Ebb exclaims, reaching out and taking the chimera from me. It snuggles up in her arms, happy as a clam. (I imagine it likes the smell of goat on her sweater.) “Now it’s your turn to share. Tell me how you came to find this little guy.”

* * *

By the time we’ve said goodbye to the chimera and Ebb (who graciously agreed to care for it, at least until we can find a more permanent home), it’s getting dark. Dinner is long over, though Simon ate more than his fair share of the biscuits Ebb gave us—so even though he complains, it’s not as bad as it could have been. The moment Ebb shuts the door behind us, a wave of self-consciousness and embarrassment washes over me. Now that all the excitement is over and there’s no immediate probability of dying, I’m confronted with the fact that Simon tracked me down to the Catacombs, found me lying on the ground practically begging him to kill me, and then he swore he didn’t want to hurt me, and _then_ he kissed me when I couldn’t stop crying. 

_Simon Snow_ kissed _me_.

And now, standing in the middle of a field in the waning daylight, I feel Simon’s eyes on me, and I have no fucking idea what to do. I want to grab him and push him down into the grass and snog him senseless, of course. (I’ve been wanting to do that since fifth year.) But I’m not entirely sure that’s the sort of thing he was thinking of when he kissed me earlier. I’m not sure he wouldn’t push me away if I reached for him. 

I turn to face him. “Snow—” I start.

He shakes his head. “Simon. You called me Simon before.”

“What?"

“In the Catacombs. You called me Simon. Right before I kissed you.”

“Right.” My stomach swoops. So we are talking about this now, then. “About that. What did you mean by it? Why did you kiss me?”

Simon just smiles and reaches out to take my hand, lacing his fingers through mine. He takes a step toward Mummers and tugs gently on my hand until I follow him. “You know I’m not any good with words. Will you let me show you?”

We go back to our room, and he does just that.

* * *

  
  


_Simon_

Saturday morning I wake up wrapped in Baz’s arms. My lips are swollen, and my head is pounding a bit from the lack of sleep I got last night.

It took a bit of convincing, but eventually Baz accepted that I wasn’t having him on, that I really do care about him, that I kissed him because I _wanted_ to, and that I wanted to kiss him again. And then I did. I kissed him again, and again, and again. And it only got better every time.

We kissed for hours. We kissed until our mouths were sore and our lips were raw (mine still are—no super fast vampire healing powers for me). We kissed in my bed. We kissed in his bed. We did a bit more than kissing. (That was new, too, but really, _really_ good.)

I roll over so I’m face-to-face with Baz. He looks so peaceful when he’s sleeping. I brush the hair back from his face and press a light kiss to the tip of his nose before slipping out of bed. It’s early still, but breakfast will be starting soon, and there’s something important I need to do.

* * *

  
  


_Baz_

Snow bursts through the door, shouting my name, quite rudely waking me up from a wonderful dream where we snogged and fooled around in my bed half the night. Then my eyes adjust, and I flush as pink as I’m capable of at the sight of a love bite peeking out from under his collar. Not a dream, then. I distinctly remember putting that one there. If memory serves, he has several others underneath his clothing.

“ _Baz!_ ” he says, again, far too loudly. “Come _on_ , you’ve got to get up!”

I shut my eyes and hold out a hand. “Come here.” He takes my hand, and I use my superior strength (see, Ebb? I listened) to pull him down onto the mattress. I wrap my arms around him and bury my face in his neck. He doesn’t even flinch at that. _Crowley_. I feel all warm and tingly at the thought that Simon trusts me enough to let me put my fangs so close to his throat. I kiss the mole on the side of his neck, just under his jawbone. Then I kiss the spot next to it. And then I kiss my way along his jaw until I reach the mole on his chin. I kiss that one too.

“Baz…” he groans. “There’s not time for this now. I want to—I _really_ want to, but you’ve got to get up.”

“What do you mean, there’s no time? It’s Saturday. What else are we going to do?”

He pushes back with a huff, and glares at me like I’m an idiot. “The _game_ , Baz. The football match!”

“We’re suspended. We can’t watch anyway.”

“No, not watching. Well, I’m going to watch. _You’re_ going to play.”

That gets me up. I sit, nearly throwing him off my lap in the process. “What?”

“I talked to Bellamy this morning. Put in a good word for you. She says we’re still suspended, but she’ll let you play in the match today. But you’ve got to get your arse down there. It’ll be starting soon.”

I’ve already got half my kit on by the time he finishes his sentence.

* * *

  
  
  


_Simon_

“Si? What are you doing here?” Penny frowns at me, confused. “Aren’t you suspended?”

I shrug, taking a seat next to her in the stands. “Bellamy said she’d make an exception so we could come to the match.”

“We?”

“Me and Baz.”

“Basil’s here?” 

“Yeah, I asked her to let him play.”

Penny’s looking at me like I’ve lost the plot. “You asked Bellamy to let Baz get out of suspension?”

“Yeah.”

She shakes her head. “Why? Wait, did you ever find him yesterday? You disappeared right after class and you missed dinner. And you didn’t even sit down to breakfast this morning, just grabbed your food and left. What happened last night? And since when are you two a _we_? ”

I can’t help but blush. Penny doesn’t need to know all of it. “Uh, it’s—well. Baz and I . . .” I scratch at the back of my head, trying to figure out how to explain. I’m not sure I _can_ explain. I’m not sure I understand it myself, other than that I really liked what Baz and I did last night and I’d really like to do it again. “We’re sort of . . . getting along now?”

Penny narrows her eyes. “You’re _getting along?_ I have a feeling that’s not the full story.”

I feel my face turn a deeper shade of red. “Er, well, the thing is…”

I’m saved having to answer by the music starting up and the announcer calling out the names of the players as they jog out onto the pitch. Baz is last, and he looks around at the stands as he runs out. I wave at him, and he breaks into a big smile and waves back. Penny looks between me and him with increasing confusion as we continue grinning at each other.

“What the _fuck_ is going on?” she whispers, but it’s mostly under her breath and to herself, so I don’t answer. She’ll figure it out soon enough, I suppose. I just don’t know how to put it in words yet.

Baz plays brilliantly, as always, and I cheer louder than anyone. Watford wins, 3-2, in a nail-bitingly close game. I’m sure if Baz hadn’t played we would’ve lost. I’m not even sure who they’d have subbed for him. No one else is nearly as good. And if I’m not mistaken, Baz seemed to be running a bit faster today, kicking the ball just a bit harder. Not enough that anyone but me would notice, but I know what he’s doing.

After the game is over, most of the team gathers together to celebrate, and most of the spectators either join them or start filing back up to the dining hall for lunch. But Baz stands a little off to the side, and I clamber down the rows in the stands, jumping from seat to seat without bothering with the stairs, until my feet hit the green of the pitch. Baz meets me there at the bottom, and I throw my arms around him without a second thought.

“Brilliant,” I tell him. “You were brilliant.”

He pulls back, just a little, and smiles at me. Baz is lovely when he smiles, and he smiles so rarely that each one feels like something precious. “Thank you, Simon,” he says. And I know he means more than just the compliment on today’s game. He presses his lips to mine, and I kiss him back, everything else be damned. Somewhere behind me I vaguely register Penny saying something, but then Baz slides a hand into my hair and tightens his arm around my waist, and the rest of the world falls away.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi to me on Tumblr!  
> [Gampyre on Tumblr](https://gampyre.tumblr.com/)


End file.
